


Dirty Little Secret (Reddie)

by youlooksodivine



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Coming Out, Derry (Stephen King), Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, More Angst Than Fluff In Case You Were Wondering, Period-Typical Homophobia, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Secret Relationship, Sorry Not Sorry, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Underage Drug Use, Weird-Ass Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-01-20 18:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youlooksodivine/pseuds/youlooksodivine
Summary: Richie Tozier. Trashmouth. Four-eyes. The annoying kid at the back of the class who could never keep his mouth shut, even when his friends would tell him to shut up, when his teacher would give him detention, when assholes like Henry Bowers would sock him in the teeth. Richie always had something to say. However, when it comes to a young boy who was raised sucking on an inhaler instead of a pacifier, Eddie Kaspbrak, why is it that Richie is suddenly lost for words?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 125





	1. On The Rocks With A Twist.

**1985**

**Derry Town House**

**Derry, Maine**

Richie stood outside the door, debating whether he should knock first or let himself inside.

Knocking seemed so _pointless_. How many times had he crawled through a window to see Eddie during the night? How many times had he tiptoed around Eddie's bedroom and slept in Eddie's bed, all the while making sure to keep quiet so Sonia Kaspbrak wouldn't hear them from downstairs?

_That was years ago._ _Things are different now_.

Richie glanced at the other doors. Bill, Beverly, Ben, and Mike were in their rooms, fast asleep. Their snores rumbled through the walls. Everyone was exhausted from their flight to Derry and - Richie grimaced - what had happened at Jade Of The Orient. He could still see the eyeball popping out of his fortune cookie and whizzing across the table. He forced the image out of his head and brought himself back to the door.

_It's only Eddie_.

_Eddie Spaghetti_.

Richie took a deep breath and knocked.

There was no immediate answer. For a fleeting second, Richie thought Eddie was ignoring him. _Don't be an idiot, he's probably getting out of bed_. Sure enough, Richie heard the sound of feet dragging along the carpet, and a moment later, the door swung open. 

Eddie stood before him. He didn't seem surprised that Richie had decided to pay him a midnight visit. 

"Hey, Richie."

"Couldn't fall asleep?"

Eddie shook his head. 

"Me neither," Richie said, "I tried to get my TV to watch sports or something, but I think the antenna is shot."

Richie understood what Eddie meant without him needing to say it -- were they really going to waste time talking about the shitty TVs? Twenty-seven-something years apart and _television_ was their topic of discussion? 

From the moment they had seen each other at Jade Of The Orient, something had ignited between them. It was something they had forgotten a long time ago -- something that drew them in, warmed them up, and excited them. Though they laughed along with the others during dinner and discussed what they would do about Pennywise, Richie and Eddie had been waiting for this very moment all day. Just them, nobody else, the way it was supposed to be. 

"Can I come in?" Richie asked.

"Yeah, man. Be my guest."

Eddie stepped aside, allowing Richie into the room. 

All of the rooms at the Derry Town House were identical. Each had an old-fashioned bed with velvety sheets, a rickety nightstand, and a wardrobe that smelled like mothballs. Richie noticed that Eddie had lugged two large suitcases into his room, and he nearly laughed. Eddie was the only person he knew that would bring his entire closet of clothes to go on a clown-killing-mission, as well as a duffel bag full of medicine, _just_ in case. 

"Hell, I thought I was overpacking by bringing my extra sneakers."

Richie turned to Eddie. He was planted by the door with an uneasy look on his face.

"Eds ... ?"

"You know I hate when you -- "

" -- call you that," Richie finished. Eddie nodded.

"How much do you remember?" 

"Not everything," Richie said.

"You know what I mean."

Eddie closed the door. The room went very still.

"When I saw you at the restaurant," Eddie said, his voice low, "It all came back. Not all of the shit that went down with Pennywise, but everything that went down with _us_. The arcade, the record store, everything. It scared the shit out of me."

"It scared me, too," Richie admitted. 

"We were like _this_," Eddie said, crossing two fingers together, "How the hell did we forget?"

Richie shrugged. 

"It's just like Mike said. Pennywise has been fucking with us the whole time."

Eddie sat on the edge of his bed, burying his head in his hands. Richie sat beside him. The bed creaked beneath their weight.

"It would've been easier if we just never remembered," Eddie said. 

Richie looked at Eddie with a frown. Eddie sighed.

"I didn't mean it that way. I just ... we grew up, Rich. Things changed."

"It meant everything to me."

Eddie lowered his head. After a moment, he added, "It meant everything to me, too."

Hearing the sadness in his voice, Richie scooted closer and wrapped an arm around Eddie. 

"Hey," he said, trying his best to sound comforting, "Hey, take it easy."

"It isn't fair."

Richie tightened his grip around Eddie, and in response, Eddie leaned into his side. At that moment, nothing had changed. Richie and Eddie were nothing more than two boys who had fallen in love. They were too young for taxes and families and grown-up problems, but they weren't too young to understand that they were in love, and love was a good thing. 

"You were the happiest thing in my life," Eddie continued, his voice muffled against Richie's shoulder, "Why couldn't things be different?"

Richie gave a weak chuckle.

"You said the same thing before we left Derry. Do you remember?"

Eddie nodded. He chuckled, too.

"Do you remember when we used to sneak around?" He asked. Richie smiled fondly. 

"Or when your mom screamed at me that one time?" Richie added, "God, I almost pissed myself."

"Yeah, she hated you. She didn't know, though. Nobody did."

"We liked it that way," Richie said. Eddie looked up. Their faces were inches apart.

"That's right," Eddie said softly, "We liked it that way."

Richie stared at Eddie, mesmerized. He touched Eddie's bottom lip with his thumb.

Their lips met.

Richie tasted the alcohol Eddie had been drinking at Jade Of The Orient -- he lapped it up until there was nothing left but Eddie, wonderful and beautiful Eddie, who he held in his arms with the same love he had felt when they were young. Their lips moved gracefully together. The kiss was soft and warm and impossibly tender. For twenty-seven-something years, Richie had been blind, and now, he could see. Eddie was his light. Eddie was his everything. And, Richie was certain, there was nothing that could make him forget again.

Richie guided Eddie against the bed, deepening their kiss. Eddie moaned. The way he gripped Richie, the way he breathed raggedly, the way his face was pink with arousal ... it spurred Richie on. He spread Eddie on his back and positioned himself on top, one hand on either side of Eddie, keeping him in place. Their lips never parted. Heat spread through their bodies and their kiss became a race, only neither Richie or Eddie cared who won.

They tore out of their clothes. 

Richie and Eddie made love under a trance. All of their forgotten years had led to this, to Richie and Eddie being as _together_ as they possibly could. Their tongues dragged across each other, leaving hot trails of saliva, and their hands explored everything in reach. They devoured every inch of each other. The affair was sensual and blurry, every moment lasting a blissful eternity, every movement delicate. When they finished, their hearts pounding, Richie and Eddie lay together in the velvety sheets of the Derry Town House, drifting in and out of sleep.

Morning light filled the room. It seeped through the curtains, across the carpet, and onto the bed. Richie was the first to wake. He squinted his eyes as the light shone across his face.

Groggy with sleep, Richie had no idea where he was. All he knew was that he was laying in the most comfortable bed in the world ... and there was someone beside him. He ran his hands along the grooves of his body, pulled him closer, and kissed whatever his lips could find.

"Eddie," he murmured.

Eddie stirred. Half-asleep, he searched for warmth, and he found Richie. He pressed himself against Richie, wanting to be held, and Richie gladly obliged.

"What time is it?" Eddie asked, his voice muffled in the sheets.

"I don't know. Early."

"Where are we?"

Richie had to think before answering, "Derry."

Eddie became tense.

"Oh, Jesus."

"What's wrong?" Richie asked, propping his head up from his pillow.

Eddie, wide-awake, mashed his face into the sheets, and when he looked up, his expression was heavy with regret. Richie could see the memory coming back to him. The whispering, the moaning, the steady creaking of the bed. 

"I'm married," Eddie said. 

Richie swallowed. He could still taste Eddie in his mouth from hours earlier.

"It doesn't have to count," he said. 

Eddie closed his eyes and rubbed them. He shook his head.

"No," he said, "No, I _want_ it to count. It _does_ count. It's not fair to Myra."

The mention of her name made the room suddenly cold, like a candle being blown out.

"I never should've opened the door," Eddie said gravely. 

Richie was crushed by his words. Laying naked in bed, he suddenly felt like an idiot.

"I should leave," he said, "Shouldn't I?"

Eddie's silence was answer enough.

Slowly, Richie climbed out of bed. His feet were freezing against the ground. He stooped down and collected his clothes, which were tossed haphazardly around the room. Once dressed, he padded to the door, but before he left, he turned to Eddie, his hand resting on the doorknob.

"What happens after this?" Richie asked. 

"Nothing happens, Rich."

Eddie was sitting upright in bed, the sheets gathered to hide his naked body. His shoulders were slumped in shame, and his gaze was focused on the ground. 

"But we _remembered_. We can't just -- we can't just walk away again."

"We aren't kids anymore," Eddie snapped, still refusing to look at Richie, "After you, it was Myra. I loved her. I married her. I forgot everything else, just like you did, just like everyone else did. Do you really expect me to drop everything? I mean, shit, you must've had someone, too, didn't you? Someone in college or something?"

Richie did have someone. Her name was Sandy. She was nice, she was funny. She was good-looking, too. To be honest, Richie had no clue why she had ever slept with him. Was it for his money? They had lasted for two years before she ended it, and Richie wasn't as heartbroken as he should've been. When he later heard that she was married and had children, he didn't care. He never felt love for her. He never felt anything for her. 

"Nothing that mattered," Richie said tonelessly.

"Yeah, well, Myra matters to me."

Eddie finally looked at Richie, and a horrible weight settled between them. Richie realized he had been squeezing the doorknob. His knuckles had turned white. He stretched out his fingers, allowing blood to circulate through his hand. He looked at Eddie, who had his arms crossed indignantly over his chest, watching him warily. This was not a man who wanted to be faithful to his wife. This was not a man at all. This was a young boy who carried his inhaler around in a fanny pack, who visited the pharmacy as much as he visited the arcade, who had fallen in love with Richie Tozier, and now, was afraid.

"I'm sorry," Eddie said, lowering his arms.

"I know you are."

"I mean it, Rich."

Richie opened the door and said dryly, "See you later, Eddie."

He was gone before Eddie could say anything else. 

In the hallway, Richie felt numb. Detached. He was vulnerable without Eddie wrapped around him. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the hem of his shirt, suddenly exhausted, but he was too miserable for sleep. Perhaps he could go downstairs and drink until he passed out. Christ, what would the others think if they found him leaning against the bar with spit dribbling down his chin, an empty glass of Seven Crown whiskey in his hand?

Bringing him out of his thoughts, one of the doors in the hallway opened. Richie turned and saw Bill coming out from his room. There were bags under his eyes.

"Richie?" Bill said blearily, "What're you d-doing up so e-e-early?"

"I ... uh ... had a nightmare."

Bill approached Richie, inspecting him. 

"You're w-wearing the s-s-ame clothes from the res-restaurant."

"Yeah."

Bill frowned. 

"You're n-not g-going to l-l-leave, are you?"

Richie looked at Bill, remembering him as a child. Other than his expensive sports jacket and thinning hair, Bill had not changed. He was still the ringleader. No matter how much they had grown, how tired they had gotten, how weary with age they were, Bill was still the ringleader, and nothing could change that. When Bill spoke, the others listened. 

"I'm not gonna leave," Richie said, "We made a promise, Big Bill."

"B-B-B-Big Bill. I forgot a-about that," Bill said, chuckling, "How about break-breakfast?" 

"How about a drink?" Richie countered, "I was thinking something strong."

"Beep-beep, R-R-Richie."

They laughed together and went downstairs, arms slung good-naturedly around each other's shoulders. Both Richie and Bill were in need of several hours of sleep, a hot shower, and something in their systems other than alcohol. They had the world against them. As if their lives had not been fucked up as they were, they were suddenly back in Derry with a murderous clown in their midst. They were walking themselves towards their own deaths, and they knew it. 

However, as they poured each other a little too much whiskey in the Derry Town House bar, none of it mattered. They were together, not alone. And, for the time being, that would have to be enough. 


	2. Summer Days And Summer Nights.

**Downtown Derry, 1958**

**Derry, Maine**

Any grown-up that walked through Derry during a scorching summer afternoon would grumble about the heat before returning home, closing the curtains, and spending the rest of their day in their living room with the newspaper and a nice, tall glass of lemonade. For Richie, the heat didn't bother him. All it meant was that his armpits were smellier than usual. And, being a thirteen-year-old boy, this was something he was perfectly accustomed to.

Richie and Eddie had spent the morning playing Street Fighter in the arcade. More specifically, Richie had spent the morning winning, and Eddie, much to his displeasure, had spent the morning losing. They now wandered downtown, each with a Slurpee in hand. They had an entire afternoon to kill. Perhaps they could catch a movie at the Aladdin. 

"I don't wanna see a movie," Eddie said.

"Why not?" Richie asked, "I heard the werewolf one is really good."

"Mom says the lighting will give me a migraine."

"Your _mom_ says a lot of things."

"Shut up," Eddie said, nudging Richie with his elbow, "She just wants the best for me."

"Eddie, sweetie!" Richie squealed, in his best impression of Sonia Kaspbrak, "Eddie, come give me a kiss!"

"Cut it out!" Eddie cried, shoving Richie away as he leaned in to kiss his cheek. Richie laughed, "I'm just kidding!"

"Yeah, well, cut it out."

They rounded a corner and stumbled into two tall figures.

"Watch where you're -- !" Richie looked up and his sentence caught in his throat.

They had run into Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter.

"Shit," Eddie hissed.

"Pleasure seeing you boys," Henry said, a nasty smirk appearing on his face, "What brings you out on a hot day like this?"

"We were just -- "

" -- leaving," Eddie finished, taking hold of Richie and turning in the opposite direction, but Patrick stepped in front of them. The heat had gotten to Patrick, too, because he smelled like body odour and sticky cigarettes. 

"What's the hurry? We weren't interrupting anything, were we?" He asked, feigning politeness. 

"Wouldn't wanna get in the way of a couple of fairies," Henry added, "Don't think I forgot about what you were trying to do to my cousin, Tozier."

Patrick grabbed the Slurpee from Eddie, took a sip, and grimaced.

"I hate cherry," he said, smacking his lips.

"Actually it's strawberry -- "

"Shut up, Richie -- "

"No worries," Henry said, "Here. You can have it back."

He took the Slurpee from Patrick, removed the lid, and dumped it on Eddie. It drenched his hair and splashed onto his clothes, staining them for good. Patrick laughed, "See you around, faggots."

Richie narrowed his eyes. Anger, sudden and overwhelming, coursed through him. He knew standing up to psychopaths like Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter was essentially asking to get the shit beat out of him, but he didn't care. Seeing the flavoured ice all over Eddie and the empty Slurpee rolling on the ground, his mind was made up. As Henry and Patrick shoved past them and continued down the sidewalk, Richie spun around, and before Eddie could stop him, he shouted, "Hey! Assholes! Why don't you go blow each other in the alley!"

"Richie, what the fuck?" Eddie whimpered, sounding mortified.

Richie wasn't finished. As Henry and Patrick turned around, their faces twisted with rage, Richie chucked his own blue raspberry Slurpee at them.

"You are so DEAD!"

One second, Richie was staring at Henry and Patrick, and in the next, Eddie was dragging him by his hand, screaming at him to run. The boys sprinted down the sidewalk. Richie had never moved so fast in his life -- he didn't want to _run_ \-- he wanted to _fight_ \-- but Eddie held onto his hand for dear life, and Richie, though his mind was clouded with anger, knew that nothing could make him let go.

"GET BACK HERE, TOZIER!"

To the grace of whatever miracle took place that afternoon, Richie and Eddie managed to outrun Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter. They ran for a good mile, twisting and turning through downtown Derry, before making it to the abandoned fields that surrounded Barrens. They collapsed on the rocky shore of the Kenduskeag Stream, spread-eagle and exhausted.

"I -- think -- we -- made -- it," Eddie gasped. Richie heard him fumble for his inhaler and shove it in his mouth. After taking several deep, wheezy breaths, he scampered to his feet and towered above Richie, his eyes aflame.

"What were you thinking? You have to be apeshit to say something like that to Bowers!"

Richie readjusted his glasses and retorted, "He dumped a Slurpee on you."

"Yeah, because he's a dickwad!"

"He shouldn't be allowed to do that."

"Why do you suddenly care?" Eddie demanded, "Bowers _always_ does stuff like that!"

Richie opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure. Why _did_ he care so much? Eddie was right. Henry Bowers was out of his mind. He was the schoolyard bully -- no, not bully. Bullies were big kids that messed with little kids. Henry Bowers carried a pocketknife with his initials scratched on the blade. Henry Bowers threw rocks at cars and stole alcohol from his dad and got in trouble with the cops every week. As for Patrick Hockstetter, there were rumours that he had an old refrigerator filled with dead animals, and it was one of the few rumours at school that Richie _knew_ was true.

Bowers and Hockstetter were no bullies -- they were something much worse, and Richie knew that. 

So, why had he decided to do something when Bowers did what he always did? Was it because of Eddie? Was it because, perhaps, he had suggested that Richie and Eddie were more than friends by calling them fairies, and he had _laughed_ at the idea? 

Richie scratched the back of his neck and said earnestly, "I don't know."

Eddie frowned.

"Don't be so stupid next time. You could've gotten us killed."

"Do you really think Bowers would kill someone?"

"If he was angry enough or stupid enough or whatever enough, yeah."

Eddie offered his hand and helped Richie to his feet. 

"Thanks, Eds."

"Whatever, Trashmouth. Wanna go do something?"

"Splendid idea!" Richie declared, in a terrible British accent, "Onwards, my good comrade!"

"You're not even that funny!" Eddie said, and the two bickered all the way back to town.

**The Denbrough House, 1958**

**Derry, Maine**

A year had passed since Georgie died. According to the newspapers, it had been a freak accident. His little body was found near a sewer on the corner of Witcham and Jackson, rain pooling in his unblinking eyes, his yellow slicker covered in blood, his arm ripped out of its socket. A dark cloud had fallen over Derry since Georgie. Richie realized, as he walked to the Denbrough house one evening with a pillow tucked under one arm and a sleeping bag tucked under the other, the dark cloud had stayed. 

More children had disappeared. More children had been found dead. Cops had taken to setting a curfew and telling schoolkids about stranger danger, but it was no use. Each day, more faces were posted in black-and-white on telephone poles and fire hydrants with MISSING written underneath. Something about the word -- MISSING -- sent shivers up Richie's spine. He felt as if these posters were staring at him. The children were _watching_ him. He could almost hear their voices, low and whispering, calling his name ... 

Richie ran the rest of the way to the Denbrough house. 

The recently-founded Losers Club had set up camp in Bill's backyard. They had found two tents in his garage. Telling from the faded tarps and rusty poles, the tents had belonged to his grandparents. Regardless, the Losers pitched the tents and squeezed themselves inside. Richie, Eddie, Bill, and Beverly in one, Ben, Mike, and Stan in the other. 

They spent their evening roasting marshmallows and swapping ghost stories (which Beverly detested) and chasing each other around with flashlights. It was almost midnight when they fell asleep, squished together in the tents like sardines.

Richie, however, did not sleep. 

The image of the MISSING children was stuck in his mind.

The wind outside of the tent sounded ominously like voices. Richie brought his sleeping bag over his head, trying to shut out the noise. _Richie ... Richie Tozier ... Trashmouth ... you'll float, too, Richie ... you'll float, too ... YOU'LL FLOAT, TOO ..._

Richie popped out of his sleeping bag, breathing heavily. He instinctively reached beside him -- Eddie -- but found nothing but a handful of empty blankets. Confused, he sat upright and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Bill and Beverly were sleeping soundly, but Eddie, who had been curled up beside him moments ago, was gone. 

Richie investigated without hesitation. Armed with his flashlight, he crawled over Bill and Beverly and poked his head out of the tent. A small part of him had been prepared to fight away the children from the posters, but as his mind cleared of the voices, he saw that Eddie was sitting just a few feet away. He sat crosslegged in front of the dying bonfire, his face flickering orange from the flames. There was a half-eaten bag of marshmallows in his lap. 

"Eds?" Richie called, stumbling out of the tent, "Did you have a nightmare or something?"

Eddie looked up. His eyes were dark. 

"Eddie?" Richie said, quieter this time. He sat beside Eddie. Their knees bumped together. 

"I can't stop seeing It," Eddie said, in a hushed voice, "Whenever I close my eyes, It's all I can see."

"What are you talking about?" 

Eddie's gaze darted towards the tents.

"Can you keep a secret?" He whispered. Richie nodded enthusiastically, "Yeah, man, whatever you need."

Eddie swallowed anxiously. His hand was already inching towards his inhaler. 

"I was walking down Neibolt the other day -- "

"Neibolt?" Richie shrieked. Eddie glared at him. 

"Sorry," Richie said, "Go ahead. I'll shut up."

Eddie nodded and continued, "I was walking down Neibolt. And, you know, there's that one house. The haunted-looking one. I know it's not haunted but it _looks_ haunted. I stopped when I went by it. I don't know why. I just did. That's when ... " Eddie drifted off. He pursed his lips as if he had tasted something sour. 

"When what?" Richie pressed.

"It was a leper."

Eddie brought his inhaler to his mouth and hovered it over his lips, at the ready.

"Like ... in the Bible?" 

"I know what I saw!" Eddie stammered, accidentally pressing his inhaler and spraying medicine on his shirt, "I don't know where It came from, but It was running at me, all crooked with Its arms out. Its skin was in patches. I could see Its bones and Its tongue was long and dripping and Its eyes were gouged out ... and It smelled like It was _rotting_. I made it over a fence but when I looked back ... there was this clown. It had these red balloons. It was looking at me. Saying I would float, or something. Then ... It was gone."

The wind howled, but Richie no longer heard the children. He heard the gurgling of the leper. He heard the laughing of the clown. 

"You think I'm crazy," Eddie said. 

"No!" Richie insisted, "No, I would never think you're -- "

"You don't have to pretend. I _know_ I'm crazy. Lepers and clowns -- it doesn't make sense."

Richie wondered what Eddie would think if he told him about the posters, about the dead children that spoke to him. Somehow, from the way Eddie was now sucking on his inhaler, Richie knew it wouldn't help. Nothing he could say would help.

"Wait here a second," Richie said. He scampered off the ground, wiped the grass from his pants, and rushed into the tent. When he returned, he carried his sleeping bag in his arms. Eddie watched with furrowed brows as Richie unzipped the sleeping bag.

"What are you doing?" 

Richie lowered himself beside Eddie and wrapped the sleeping bag around both of them, nestling them together. Eddie stiffened at how close they were.

"You're not crazy," Richie repeated, matter-of-factly, "And you don't have to worry. I'll keep your secret."

He tightened the sleeping bag around them. They sat together in front of the bonfire, which was now reduced to burning embers.

Richie could still hear the voices in the wind, but he was not scared. Whatever had killed Georgie, whatever had taken those children, whatever had spoken to him through the posters, and now, whatever had appeared as a leper and a clown to Eddie, was a problem for the morning. Richie was not scared because he was with Eddie. Sure, an asthmatic thirteen-year-old was not his ideal protection against some murderous creature, but Richie was too tired and too content underneath the sleeping bag to care. 

Richie and Eddie leaned against each other. Just before they fell asleep, Richie heard Eddie whisper tiredly into the darkness, "Thanks, Richie."

**The Kaspbrak House, 1958**

**Derry, Maine**

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Richie peered through the bedroom window.

"Hey!" He whispered, "Eddie!"

A lamp was turned on. Richie saw Eddie climbing out of his bed, confused at first, and when he saw Richie, his eyes widened in surprise. He scurried to the window and struggled to slide it open, considering one of his arms was bound in a cast.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Eddie said shrilly. Richie tossed his backpack inside and climbed through the window. He landed carefully on the ground, making sure not to make any noise. 

"I thought you could use some company," Richie said, sounding pleased with himself, "How's the arm?"

"Are you out of your mind? If my mom hears you -- "

"She won't hear me."

"Richie!" Eddie said sternly, "You could get us in trouble."

Richie gave Eddie a look.

"If you want me to leave, fine. I'll just leave."

He swung his backpack over his shoulder and began for the window. Eddie stopped him.

"What's in your bag?" He asked. Richie grinned. He knew Eddie wouldn't let him leave.

"I'll show you," Richie said. He spun around and plopped on Eddie's bed. Eddie, tentative, sat beside him.

Richie had brought only the best of his collection of comic books -- Superman Featuring The Doom From Krypton -- Superman Featuring The Bride Of Futureman -- Superman Featuring The Super Duel In Space! He had also made a stop at the corner store and spent all his money on junk food. Along with his comics, he had a brown paper bag full of candy, a bag of potato chips, and a large bottle of soda.

Once Eddie shut up about cavities and root canals, they tore into the candy and chips and chugged their way through the soda. They lay on their stomachs with a comic book between them. Richie and Eddie were not tired in the least, even though it was long past their bedtimes. They happily flipped through the Superman comics and munched on the goodies from the corner store. The hours melted away.

"What's that?" Richie asked, noticing the writing on Eddie's cast.

"Oh -- it's nothing," Eddie said, hiding his cast underneath his pillow, "Just a signature."

"Didn't look like a signature."

Reluctantly, Eddie revealed what was written on his cast in big, bold letters.

LOSER.

"Who did that?" Richie deadpanned. 

"Gretta Keene. It's no big deal," Eddie said, attempting to hide his cast again, but Richie stopped him. He pulled the cast into the light and examined it. He never liked Gretta Keene. In fact, he hated Gretta Keene, with her curly blonde ponytail and annoying gum-chewing. The thought of her beckoning Eddie to her and writing LOSER on his cast made Richie's blood boil. She had probably laughed and, once Eddie left the pharmacy, called her friends to tell them about how _clever_ she was, only to be praised.

"I said it's no big deal," Eddie repeated, pulling away. Richie knew he was embarrassed. As much as Richie was tempted to offer going to the pharmacy first thing in the morning and giving Gretta a good smack, it would only make matters worse. 

Instead, Richie spotted a red marker sitting on Eddie's nightstand. 

"I have an idea."

"What idea?"

"Give me your arm."

Richie grabbed the marker and uncapped it between his teeth. He scrawled on Eddie's cast. When he finished, he tossed the marker aside and showed Eddie his handiwork, a proud smile on his face.

"Lover?" Eddie read questioningly. 

"Beats loser, doesn't it?" Richie said.

They shared a long look.

Whenever they were together, Richie would say something funny, Eddie would get offended, and they would bicker until they went their separate ways. They were never really mad at each other, though. They always saw each other again the next day, no matter what they bickered about, and they would do it all over again. 

This time, however, there was nothing to bicker about. They sat in silence. 

It was the first time Richie was lost for words. His mind went completely blank. No jokes, no impressions, nothing. He simply stared at Eddie, who stared back. They were so close that their noses were almost touching.

"Why did you come here tonight?" Eddie asked, breaking the silence. 

"I like being with you," Richie blurted, surprising them both. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Nobody has been doing anything since ... Pennywise. Big Bill and Bev have been quiet. Haystack locked himself up in the library. Mike is at his farm. I saw Stan, but that was only because I went to the synagogue. Everyone is pretending like nothing happened. It feels wrong. But ... I guess ... it feels more wrong that you and me are apart. We always hang out, I mean. Today, I just really thought you could use some company, and ... you know."

Richie glanced at Eddie, expecting him to make fun of his shitty speech, but on the contrary, Eddie looked moved. 

"Do you mean that?" Eddie whispered. 

There was a quiet, lingering moment. 

"Yeah, I -- "

The bedroom door suddenly burst open, causing Richie and Eddie to shout in alarm. Sonia Kaspbrak stood in the doorway. She was dressed in her cotton pyjamas, her face was purple, and her hands were balled into fists.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sonia screeched. Her beady little eyes darted around the room. She saw the open window, the candy wrappers, the comic books ... she saw the teenage boy laying next to her son. 

"GET AWAY FROM MY EDDIE!"

She stepped towards the bed, making the entire room tremble.

"Richie, get out of here!" Eddie yelled. Richie didn't need to be told twice. Abandoning his backpack, he jumped off the bed, dove out the window, and frantically climbed down the large oak tree that stood next to the house. Once his feet were on the ground, he ran as fast as he could down the street. Sonia Kapsbrak screamed after him, surely waking the neighbours. Though Richie knew a woman like Sonia would never be able to catch him, he ran until his chest was burning, all the way to his house a few blocks away.

Meanwhile, back in the Kaspbrak house, Eddie sat on his bed as his mother hurried around the room collecting the comic books and candy wrappers. She bellowed about sugar rotting his teeth and germs from that Tozier boy and thousands of dollars worth of medication ... but Eddie heard none of it. He was looking at the messy red handwriting on his cast. LOVER.

A smile spread across his face.

**The Barrens, 1958**

**Derry, Maine**

Richie was sure the sky had never been so blue. 

He walked through the tall grass, which swayed gently as the wind blew through it, lapping against Richie and ruffling his hair. He filled his lungs with the sweet smell of trees and bushes. Summer was nearly over, but he was not sad. He walked with a serene smile on his face.

His hand, throbbing dully, dripped with blood. Bill had been the one to cut him with the broken Coke bottle. Bill, Richie, all of them. They stood in a circle and held hands. They promised as friends, as Losers, they would come back if Pennywise was still alive. Even if they were old and fat and boring, even if they were scared, they would come back.

Beverly had said she had seen all of them as grown-ups. They were in the cistern with Pennywise. Richie wondered what everyone would be like as grown-ups. Would Big Bill still be brave? Would Bev still be beautiful? Would Haystack still be kind? Would Mikey still be honest? Would Stan still be intelligent? Would Eddie still be ...

Richie stopped walking. Leaning against the rickety wooden fence that separated the Barrens from the road was none other than Eddie.

"What's up, Eds?" Richie said.

"You know I hate when you call me that."

Richie approached Eddie, his non-bleeding hand stuffed in his pocket. 

"I was waiting for you," Eddie said. 

"I kinda figured."

Something had changed since they made it out of the cistern. Perhaps, Richie thought, nearly getting killed by a clown brings out the hidden side of a person. For Eddie, he stood a little taller, spoke a little louder. Richie liked it immensely. He liked that Eddie was sure of himself, not sucking on his inhaler every other minute, or worried his mother would get him in trouble for something stupid. Richie had changed, too. He was not entirely sure how he had changed, but he could feel something simmering inside of him.

And, as he stood with Eddie, he slowly began to understand what it was.

"I noticed you didn't freak out about your hand," Richie said, gesturing at the dried blood all over Eddie's fingers.

"It's just a cut."

"We'll have to amputate!" Richie cried, pretending to be a war doctor, "Quick, nurse, give me the -- "

In one, swift movement, Eddie kissed Richie.

Their lips were squished awkwardly together for no more than a second. When they pulled away, Richie stared at Eddie in amazement. His lips were warm and tingling. He opened his mouth to say something -- anything -- but no words came out. He stared at Eddie, unable to see anything else. The Barrens. The fence. The road. Everything had vanished. It was just Eddie. 

"They're gazebos, you know."

Richie blinked.

"They're -- what?"

"Gazebos," Eddie repeated, "My pills. They're fake."

_Placebos_, Richie realized.

"Things are going to be different, aren't they?" Eddie said thoughtfully.

"Because of Pennywise?"

"No, dipshit."

They smirked at each other. For whatever reason, they began to snicker, and before long, they were keeled over and laughing. There was nothing remotely funny about whatever the hell they were talking about, but Richie and Eddie understood each other without needing to explain themselves. They clutched their stomachs, laughing so hard they could hardly breathe.

When they finally settled down, Richie asked casually, "Wanna play Street Fighter?"

"Yeah," Eddie said, wiping the tears from his eyes, "So I can kick your ass."

"I'll let you win, Eds."

"You know I _hate_ when you call me that!"

Together, Richie and Eddie climbed over the fence and made their way to the arcade, bickering as they did best. Above them, in the bright blue sky, birds flew southbound towards New Hampshire, leaving their nests behind. A clear sign that autumn was on its way.


	3. The Kissing Bridge.

**Derry Records, 1985**

**Derry, Maine**

Richie ambled down the middle of the street.

He remembered wandering around when he was younger, passing by mothers pushing carriages and factory workers rushing to their next shift. Children would sit on the curbs with ice cream dripping down their cones and onto their hands, dogs would bark while they waited for their owners to finish their errands, cops would lazily drive around and honk at teenagers, scaring the shit out of them.

Now, Derry was a ghost town. Every building was boarded up. Windows were smashed. Crumpled leaves and old flyers skidded across the ground. Businesses had run dry when the new mall opened up, attracting shoppers and workers alike.

Richie stopped in front of the record store. The sign above the store was chipped and faded with age. Derry Records.

Richie had enjoyed working at the record store. The pay was mediocre but, in all fairness, he had done nothing more than sitting behind the counter, listening to music through his headphones as he flipped through a comic book. He remembered driving to the store after school, clocking in, and waiting for his next paycheck, which he would spend on cheese-dogs, sodas, and cheap marijuana. _Those were the days_, Richie thought. 

The bell above the door chimed as he walked inside.

The record store was small and messy. The floors were lined with shelves, each shelf stuffed with boxes of records, and half-assed signs that declared BOGOs and clearance sales. There were posters of the latest and greatest records -- The Dark Side Of The Moon, Rumours, Paranoid, Led Zeppelin IV, Maggot Brain, The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars! 

Richie flipped through a box of records. Judas Priest. Iron Maiden. All heavy metal, which he had once worshipped. He wondered if his old boss had still been in charge on the day they closed. He had been a middle-aged man with a beer-belly, always wearing sandals, with a ridiculous bald spot on his head, hidden underneath a baseball cap. _ Tozier_, he used to say, _make sure you take inventory_, _make sure you put the new shipment on display_, _make sure you_ \-- 

The back room door swung open. 

"Fuck!" Richie cried, dropping the Iron Maiden record. 

Eddie stepped out from the back room, laughing. 

"I heard you come in," Eddie said, "Thought I would scare you."

"You did a fucking good job," Richie said, clutching his chest, "I think you gave me a heart attack."

Eddie smiled. When they met eyes, his smile disappeared. 

They had been in bed together just hours ago. 

"Look," Eddie said, "What we did -- "

"You don't have to," Richie interrupted.

"I _want_ to," Eddie said, "What we did ... I know what I said and, if I could, I would take it back. I want you to know that. I don't regret a second of it. I don't think it was a mistake, either. When I let you in the room, I knew what could happen, and I wanted it. Afterwards, I don't know, I got scared because I could hear Myra in the back of my head. And, I'm sorry. None of it was your fault. It was mine."

"You don't have to apologize. We were both there."

Eddie nodded. He looked away, his smile returning.

"What?" Richie asked, walking up to the counter.

"I forgot what it was like," Eddie said, "To fuck a guy."

Richie raised his eyebrows. 

"Well, actually," he said, "You were fucked _by_ a guy."

Richie and Eddie laughed harder than they had in a long time.

"Funny how we both came here," Richie said, circling around the counter and looking around. Everything was covered in cobwebs. Eddie replied, shrugging his shoulders, "Mike said to find an artifact. We both thought the same thing, I guess."

"Do you have it?"

"How do you think I got into the back room?"

Eddie reached into his pocket and produced a brass key. Richie, shaking his head in disbelief, took the key. The cool steel against his hand brought him back to when they were teenagers. He would be working. Whenever business was slow, Eddie would come in, the bell above the door chiming. He would approach the counter and pretend to be a customer. Richie, playing along, would say the record he was looking for was in the _back room_. He would use the brass key to unlock the door. They would go inside, close the door, and make out like animals, knocking over boxes and smashing records. Whenever his boss asked questions, Richie would blame the mice for the damage.

"We were, what," Richie laughed, "Seventeen? Eighteen?"

"Something like that."

They looked at each other, then at the door.

"What do you say?" Eddie asked, "For old times' sake?"

Together, they went into the back room. 

The back room was an odd combination of storage and an office. Pushed into one corner of the room was a desk, stacked with piles of paperwork and receipts. There were large boxes, still sealed in plastic, and on the walls were several bulletin boards. 

"Nothing really changed," Richie noted.

"They closed a few years ago," Eddie said, reading the nearest bulletin board. Richie stood next to him. On the bulletin board was a calendar, marking who worked on which days, when the next order of records was supposed to be shipped, when someone booked the day off. There were half a dozen or so Polaroids of different employees. Richie was no longer there. The spot where his picture had once been was replaced by a young woman with dyed hair and a choker, her lips painted black.

"Charming," Richie said, looking at the picture.

"You're the one to talk," Eddie said, "I don't think you combed your hair _once_ when you worked here."

"No, but I didn't soak my hair with product, unlike you, Mr. Presley."

"You said you liked it!"

"I wanted to make you feel good about yourself!" Richie said, grinning, but this was a lie, and they both knew it. Richie had loved every stupid little thing about Eddie, from his gelled hair to his fanny packs. He teased him, sure, but he never meant a word of it. It was his nonsensical, teenage-boy way of telling Eddie just how much he cared, without really having to say it. 

"I don't think Mike said anything about sharing artifacts," Eddie said, holding up the key.

"There's nothing else I can think of."

"Me neither," Eddie agreed, "I guess the only thing about Derry that mattered was you."

Eddie lowered himself on the desk. All of a sudden, he looked like the person he was before he received the phone call from Mike. The stressed-out limousine driver from New York who spent his nights tossing and turning with his morbidly obese wife sleeping soundly beside him. He was not a man who often laughed or smiled. He worried about his clients, worried about his meds, worried about his wife for all the wrong reasons. There were deep wrinkles in his forehead. Richie hadn't noticed them before.

"We all had the same lives," Eddie said, "After we left Derry. Bad relationships. No kids. Tons of cash. Unhappy."

"You're not happy?" Richie asked.

"Are you?"

Richie was taken aback. It was a simple question. Richie was successful, he was wealthy, he was the beloved Man Of A Thousand Voices, the king of FM radio in Los Angeles! He had a good run with Sandy, while it lasted. But happiness ... it never seemed to fit in the equation. When Richie thought about happiness, he thought about the summer breeze, the Derry sun shining on his face, the sound of crickets at night ... and Eddie at his side. Had it really been twenty-seven-something years since he was happy?

"We have another chance," Richie said.

"I know."

"We can't fuck it up this time."

"We should get to the library. The others are probably waiting."

Richie nodded.

They left the back room. They walked past the records, the posters, the signs that declared the sale of a lifetime. Before they left the store, Eddie stopped.

"Fuck it," he said.

"What?"

"Everything is gonna go to shit when we get back," Eddie said, "Why don't we take advantage of today? I mean, we could all be dead by tomorrow morning, right? We could at least do something other than getting killed by a fucking clown."

"What did you have in mind?" Richie wondered. 

"We should do what we used to do."

"Get high?"

"No!"

"Have sex in my car?"

"What? No! Fuck you, man!" Eddie yelled, "Don't you remember when we used to just walk around? Do nothing?"

"I knew what you meant," Richie said, laughing at himself. Eddie rolled his eyes and barged out of the store. Richie followed close behind. 

During the hours they spent together that afternoon, Richie and Eddie realized Derry had not changed as much as they thought. They walked through neighbourhoods, pointing out the houses they recognized, and along the canal, which still smelled like garbage. The park, which had once been green and lush, was now brown and lifeless, but the benches were still there, weathered and sagging. Derry looked different, but as Richie and Eddie walked, bouncing between conversations, petty arguments, and gut-twisting laughter, it became clear Derry was the same place where they had grown up ... the same place where they had fallen in love.

"Remember what Ben told us?" Eddie said, when they reached the Kissing Bridge, "About Bowers that one time?"

"Fucking lucky he got away," Richie said, "Haystack was fast for a fat kid. Anyone else would break their neck trying to run down there."

They gazed down the steep hill that led to the Barrens. With the loose rocks and the prickly brush, even the most sure-footed, devil-may-care child would have a hard time getting to the bottom. For Richie and Eddie, climbing down the hill was entirely out of the question. Their adult bodies were too stiff and lanky and prone to pulling a muscle. 

Richie laughed hollowly.

"How the hell are we going to kill him?" He asked. They couldn't climb down a hill, but they were going to put an end to Pennywise?

"I have no idea," Eddie said. After a moment, he added, "Stan must've thought the same thing."

They shared a moment of silence, thinking about their good old friend, Stan The Man, the Jewish kid obsessed with bird-watching who, despite his uptight and ever-so-proper demeanour, dropped the f-bomb during a reading, offending the elders as he stormed out. Richie had been in the audience. Stan pushed open the doors and was gone, the echo of his footsteps bouncing off the marble floor and walls. Richie, ecstatic, had laughed and chased after him.

Now, Stan was dead. 

"Do you think we'll make it?" Richie asked.

"Who knows."

"You seem awfully okay with dying."

Eddie shrugged.

"We all came back when Mike called. We all knew what could happen."

"Still," Richie said, "How do you accept the fact we could be alive today and dead tomorrow?"

Eddie continued to gaze down the hill, deep in thought.

"There's nothing in my life that I would miss," he said, "Nothing in my life that would miss me, either. I'm not saying I'm not grateful for what I have. You know, like, my marriage, and my limos, or whatever. But, when I was flying out of New York after Mike called, I wondered if I would ever come back, and to be completely honest, it wouldn't be the end of the world if I don't."

"Eddie ... "

"I know what you're going to say," Eddie said, pointing a finger at Richie.

"Yeah, but, Eddie ... things can be different."

"We might die."

"We might not," Richie argued, "If we're alive by the end of all this, what the hell is stopping any of us from starting over? You said so yourself. We had the same lives after we left Derry. We were unhappy, in one way or another. You shouldn't go back to New York. You shouldn't stay with your company, you shouldn't stay with Myra, you shouldn't -- "

"Don't talk about my wife, man."

"Do you love her?" Richie asked, glaring at Eddie, "Can you tell me right here, right now, that you love her?"

They stared each other down. 

Eddie broke quickly.

He looked away, hands balled into fists, face burning up. He almost resembled his mother, Richie realized, whenever she was about to give Eddie trouble. Regardless, he waited for Eddie to compose himself. He waited for Eddie to tell him, essentially a stranger after twenty-seven-something years, the truth about his life. His deepest, darkest secret.

"No," Eddie said, in hardly a whisper, "I don't love Myra."

_There_.

"Come to L.A. with me," Richie said.

"I can't do that."

"We can make it work."

"I can't do that."

"We can be together! We can be _happy_ \-- "

"NO!" Eddie bellowed, shutting Richie up, "I might not like how my life is, but that doesn't mean I can _abandon_ everything! We had our chance when we were kids, but that was a fucking long time ago, and we blew it! We moved on! I moved on! Just because we're together again, just because we remembered -- that doesn't change anything."

"So, you're okay with being miserable?" Richie said, standing his ground, "We have another chance! What are you so afraid of?"

Eddie was close to tears. Richie knew he had pushed him too far. 

He had to push him further.

"I love you," Richie said, lowering his voice, "Why don't you love me, too?"

There was a long, strangled silence.

Richie felt his heart split in two, as Eddie, the love of his life, said nothing in return. The world collapsed around him. He should have been furious, depressed, or hell, embarrassed, but he felt none of those things because it was Eddie, and nothing could make him feel anything other than _love _for Eddie. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Eddie welcomed the embrace. He was trembling.

"I can't do it," Eddie said weakly.

"I know."

They held onto each other desperately. 

The Losers were probably waiting for them, wondering where the hell they went, or, perhaps, if Pennywise had found them and dragged them into the sewers, but Richie cared for none of it. Everything seemed so meaningless. The Losers, the sewers, Pennywise. If they lived, they lived. If they died, they died. Either way, Richie would be without Eddie, and if he was without Eddie, what did he have to live for?

It was dark when they reached the library. Richie and Eddie stared at the large silhouette of the building, feeling like bugs about to be squashed.

"Say one of us dies," Richie said.

"Do we really have to talk about that?"

"Come on, humour me."

Eddie sighed, "Okay. Say one of us dies."

"If I got my head ripped off, or something, would you miss me?"

"What are you getting at?"

"The least you can do is say you would miss me," Richie said. 

"You know I would miss you. Why are you making me say this, man?"

Richie had a soft smile on his face. 

"I would miss you, too, Eddie."

No, they were not going to spend the rest of their lives together. They were not going to fly back to Los Angeles, find an apartment, get married, and adopt a hundred children. They were not going to live the life they once dreamed of -- a life _together_. But, in some, weird way, Richie found solace in knowing that if they never made it out of Derry, at least he had told Eddie the truth. He loved him. As much as it made him want to claw out his own chest, drink until he blacked out, cry until he had no more tears ... at least Eddie knew. 

Richie leaned forward and kissed Eddie on the cheek.

"Do you have the key?" He asked.

"Key? Oh," Eddie, slightly dazed, reached into his pocket. The key. The artifact. He pulled it out, the brass glinting in the moonlight.

Together, Richie and Eddie went inside the library, not as friends, not as lovers, but as two men who had their own, unhappy lives, and were brought together by a promise they made as children. If they were to live through whatever they encountered during the next few days, they would go their separate ways. They would, just like before, forget what had once made them feel on top of the world.


	4. Iron Maiden, Playboy, And Marijuana.

**Derry Records, 1963**

**Derry, Maine**

In the years that followed what happened underneath the house on Neibolt Street, the Losers Club slowly faded, and eventually, was forgotten. The hot summer days spent in the Barrens were nothing more than memories, as were all the times they ran from Bowers, scared for their lives, or when they stood in a circle, their hands clasped together and dripping with blood, as they promised never again to let Pennywise return from the sewers.

One by one, the Losers moved away.

Beverly was the first to go, claiming to have found an aunt in Portland. She left her friends. She left her childhood home. She left her father, who now rested beneath a headstone. Bill left soon afterwards. He announced his parents could no longer stand living in a house that reminded them so much of Georgie, so off they went, and they had no intention of looking back. 

Ben had started high school in Derry and finished it in Nebraska. After his mother lost her job, he had no choice but to move in with relatives. Stan, who had always been the brightest of the bunch, knew that Derry was a dead-end for a promising young man such as himself. He found a promising high school in a promising town, and he was gone before the start of freshman year.

Mike had also disappeared before freshman year, but for different reasons. His father had taken his final breath in a hospital room, hooked up to machines that treated the last stages of his cancer. Mike, being the good son that he was, devoted himself to his family farm, working double, sometimes triple shifts downtown, all to support his grieving mother and brothers.

Though they wouldn't realize it until they were much older, the Losers were turning into what they had once dreaded. Grown-ups. They were too young to actually call themselves grown-ups, but they were too old to play in the Barrens, to run from bullies, to make promises with broken Coke bottles. There were more important things to care about, after all.

However, sitting behind the counter of Derry Records, bobbing his head to Iron Maiden and flipping through a Superman comic, Richie Tozier had very little on his mind. What had once been a dorky young boy had sprouted into a dorky young man. Richie stretched nearly six feet tall, running purely on cheese-dogs and sodas from the diner across the street. His hair was messier, his glasses were thicker, and his choice of clothing had evolved from Hawaiian shirts to band-tees and ripped jeans.

Of course, some things had changed since that fateful summer. One thing, in particular, had become the _important thing to care about_ for Richie, and he just so happened to come through the door of Derry Records that afternoon. 

Eddie Kapsbrak slammed his fist on the counter. Richie, startled, lowered his headphones and, seeing Eddie, asked with a frown, "What's going on, Eds? You look like you just gave birth."

"I'm pissed!" Eddie said, "Fucking pissed! You won't believe it!"

"Fire away, Miss Oakley."

"It's the pharmacy! I went to refill my prescription and Old Man Keene threatened to cut me off. _Cut me off_. Do you believe it?"

"Yeah, actually, considering you buy half his stock every -- "

"And you know what else?" Eddie went on, his voice squeaky with anger, "I told him that it wasn't fair, and what does he say? He says he doesn't wanna supply for me anymore because he doesn't think my meds are _necessary_. I have asthma! Does he think he's a fucking doctor, all of a sudden?"

Eddie buried his face in his hands and groaned. Richie, chuckling, reached forward to pinch his cheek.

"You know I hate when you do that," Eddie said, swatting Richie away.

"You're so _cute_ when you're angry."

"Fuck you, man."

"I can't take you seriously," Richie said, still chuckling, "I mean, sorry about the pharmacy and everything, but you're like an elf complaining about presents."

Eddie glared through narrowed eyes as Richie laughed himself stupid. When he settled down, his face was full of colour, and there were amused tears shining in his eyes. He wiped them away.

"Wanna go for lunch?" Richie asked, smiling.

"You don't have your break for another hour," Eddie said, nodding at the clock. Richie shrugged. He circled around the counter.

"Not like they're gonna fire me over a cheese-dog. Let's go."

Eddie didn't budge.

This was a game they had played several times before, and Richie never grew tired of it. No matter how angry Eddie was, or frustrated, or nervous, or upset that his inhaler was jammed, Richie was the one to cheer him up. Today was no different. He backtracked to the counter and stood beside Eddie, clearing his throat.

"Please, sir!" Richie squealed, doing his best impression of Oliver Twist, "A cheese-dog, sir! A cheese-dog is all I want!"

Eddie rolled his eyes.

"You're so stupid. You're not even that funny."

"A cheese-dog!" Richie went on, louder this time, "Sir, please!"

"Shut up!" Eddie said. He cracked a smile. Richie had won.

Sparing a glance at the windows to make sure nobody was passing by, Richie held the sides of Eddie's face and kissed him. It was a casual kiss, not one of passion, but the sort of kiss that reminded the boys about their dirty little secret. As insignificant as it seemed, this was the sort of kiss they shared most often, at least several times a day, just so they remembered.

Richie pulled away from the kiss, happy with himself, seeing that Eddie had given up on being angry.

Richie flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the door behind him. Together, Richie and Eddie walked across the street and went to the diner, anticipating their greasy lunch of cheese-dogs and soda. The kiss was still warm on their lips. 

Richie had stayed in Derry, as did Eddie. They often discussed how they hated Derry, how it was a small town where everybody knew everybody, and there was no space to _breathe_, but in truth, they were secretly grateful they had stayed behind and the others had left. If the Losers stayed together, Richie and Eddie would always have company, whether it was Bill or Beverly or Ben or Stan or Mike.

The Losers were friends, but some secrets were secrets for a reason. At least in the minds of Richie and Eddie, born and raised in Derry, which, despite the protests in the big cities and the headlines about men marrying men and women marrying women, the words _fairy_, _faggot_, and _queer_ were thrown around each day, and anyone associated with those words had nasty targets on their backs. 

Falling in love was supposed to be a good thing. If it was love, of course. High schoolers who held hands and made out and stayed up all night on the phone did not equate to love. There was something subtle about love. It lured you, enticed you, drew you near without you realizing, and once you did, it was too late. It was in the looks on the faces of a newlywed couple, or in the eyes of an old, wrinkly husband and wife, when they got ready in their Sunday best and hobbled down to the church to get out of the house, just as they did every Sunday for the last fifty years.

Or, it was in the mischievous little smiles between two boys who sat across from each other at a diner.

To anyone else in the diner, Richie and Eddie were nothing more than two boys, two friends, who had decided to go for lunch, and would probably spend the afternoon knocking over mailboxes. They would discuss the cutest girls in their grade, or the latest fistfight in the hallway, or how many beers they had chugged at the house party last weekend. Whatever boys did nowadays.

Nobody would know about the mischievous smiles. People walked by without a second glance.

It was a secret, but it was _their_ secret, and that was the way Richie and Eddie liked it.

**Derry High School, 1963**

**Derry, Maine**

Of course, secrets, in one way or another, were never secrets for long.

The closeness of two boys raised suspicion in the hallways at school. Students would question what exactly Richie and Eddie did together when nobody was looking, teachers would wonder why they passed each other notes during class, smile at each other, and continue with the lesson. Anyone with eyes could see Richie and Eddie were good friends. However, their _closeness_ had brought them to the bottom of the food chain. They were the fairies. The faggots. The queers. Even the ninth-graders would spit in their direction and get away with it.

During the break between the first and second period one morning, Richie sat on the counter in the boys' bathroom with a wad of tissues stuffed in each nostril, both of which were bleeding profusely. His head was spinning. He heard the students in the hallway, talking loudly and slamming their locker doors before heading to class. Silence filled the bathroom. Richie leaned against the mirror and closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore the bleeding. He reached into his pocket. He had a joint, freshly-rolled, but no lighter.

Suddenly, the door opened and Eddie rushed inside. 

"Richie!"

Richie opened one eye. He saw Eddie in front of him, stricken with almost motherly concern, inspecting the bloodstained wads of tissues stuffed in his nose. 

"It looks like they broke your nose! Who was it? Belch? Victor?"

"Does it matter?"

Eddie pulled the tissues out and tossed them into the garbage.

"This is why I _never_ should've stopped wearing fanny-packs," Eddie said, more to himself than to Richie, "I don't even have anything in my locker! I have some antibacterial spray at home to prevent an infection, but it might be too late, and by the time I -- "

"Calm down, Jekyll," Richie said, "Your Hyde is showing."

Eddie frowned.

"This is serious, Rich."

"This is a nosebleed, Eds. You should've seen the other guy."

Eddie, knowing better, gave up on his attempts at playing doctor. He jumped up onto the counter and sat beside Richie. 

"Who was it?" He asked quietly. Richie didn't answer right away. His face grew warm with embarrassment and anger. 

"You can tell me," Eddie reminded him. Richie was comforted when Eddie put a hand on his knee and squeezed it gently. 

"I don't know who it was," Richie said, "I think it was a girl. She yelled something, and the next thing I know, my face is on the floor."

Anyone else would have laughed at the fact Richie was shown up by a girl, but Eddie did not. He said nothing. 

"I hate being like this!" Richie said, jumping off the counter. He paced the bathroom, blood trickling freely from his nose.

"Why are _we_ like this? Why do _we_ have to get shit for it? Did we do something wrong? No! But everyone hates us! And it's not like we can do anything about it, or we'll get our dicks cut off!" Richie kicked the trashcan as hard as he could. It slammed against the wall, making Eddie grimace at the sound, and garbage went flying everywhere. Richie patted his pockets again and groaned.

"Got a lighter?"

"No," Eddie said flatly, "You know, smoking isn't the answer to everything."

"You sound like my parents."

Richie rolled the joint between his fingers, craving the smoky taste, the pungent smell, the feeling that he had sprouted wings and was flying away from his problems. His nose was throbbing. He looked at Eddie, sitting on the counter with his hands folded neatly in his lap. Eddie, who would never hurt a fly. Eddie, who was scared of his own shadow. Eddie, who laughed at his impressions and ran his fingers through his hair and scolded him for playing the drums against his desk with pencils. Fuck -- even the middle of a bathroom-nosebleed-crisis, he could look at Eddie, and think about all the things he loved about _Eddie_. 

Richie looked away, returning to what he was saying.

"What about you?"

"What?" Eddie said.

"What do you wanna do about it?"

"There's nothing we _can_ do about it."

"There has to be _something_ \-- !" Richie stopped. Eddie had slid off the counter, tore a piece of paper towel, ran it under the tap, and began cleaning the blood from Richie's nose and mouth. Richie watched him. Eddie furrowed his brows as he worked. 

"There's nothing we can do about it," Eddie said, "Not yet, anyway. Maybe after we leave Derry."

"What happens after we leave Derry?"

Eddie finished and tossed the paper towel aside, letting it land on the floor among the spilled garbage.

"How should I know?" He said. He stood on his toes and kissed Richie. They shared a smile.

Suddenly, the door opened once more. Richie and Eddie instinctively sprang apart, but it was only the custodian. He was a grumpy old man who hated teenagers, and spent his free time hitting on the lunch lady, or when he was feeling particularly confident, the school nurse. He carried a mop and bucket. When he saw the mess on the floor, he froze, and when he saw Richie and Eddie, he began shouting, "You bastards! Did you do this?"

Richie snapped his feet together, stood straight, and saluted.

"Sir, no, sir!"

Eddie clamped his hands over his mouth, laughing.

"You think you're funny, Tozer?" The custodian said, throwing his mop and bucket angrily on the floor, "Alright, how about you and your friend clean this up? Still funny? How about when you're done, you can help me scrape the gum off the desks? Still funny, Tozier?"

He left the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Richie and Eddie exchanged a look and broke out into laughter.

**The Tozier House, 1963**

**Derry, Maine**

Richie moaned as he came into a tissue. 

Surrounded by posters of his favourite bands, clothes littering his chair and desk, and comic books strewn across the floor, Richie crumpled the tissue, which was sticky with his come, and chucked it under his bed. His heart was pumping quickly and his breathing was hitched. In his hand was a Playboy magazine, which he had stolen from the pharmacy months ago. He had flipped open to a page with a picture of Adrienne Moreau. She was naked, lying in a porcelain bathtub covered in bubbles, her blonde hair stuck to the sides of her face, her lips pillowy and slightly parted.

Seconds ago, he had imagined her lips sucking him off. 

Now, he had no interest in her. Richie tossed the magazine aside. He stuck a joint between his teeth, lit it, and enjoyed the smoke as it travelled through his lungs, warming him up. He leaned over and turned on the radio. He set the volume low, not wanting to wake his parents, and tuned until he found a rock-and-roll station. 

Richie closed his eyes. He let out the smoke.

There were a number of things he could have been doing at eleven o'clock on a school night. For starters, his backpack was full of homework from days ago, which he had no intention of working on. For whatever reason, there was always something to do that was more interesting than sleeping, such as jerking off, smoking, listening to the radio, or sneaking out of the house to rendezvous with Eddie. 

Richie wondered what Eddie was up to. 

_Probably in bed_, Richie thought, smirking, _like the good boy he is_,_ w__earing the ugly pyjamas his mom bought him for his birthday. He probably looks like the long-lost brother of the snobby rich kids in Peter Pan. The Darling kids, whatever their names are, with slippers and a sleeping cap, the whole get-up. I'll tease him about those pyjamas tomorrow. _

_I wish I could tease him now. I wish he was in bed with me. I wish I could hold him ... touch him ... kiss him ..._

Richie sighed and took another drag from his joint. His mind became fuzzier. Looking down at himself, he was not surprised to see he was hard again.

Instead of Adrienne Moreau, he imagined Eddie sucking him off.

The thought made his insides squirm with pleasure. Richie pictured Eddie as clearly as he could, lying snug between his legs, his lips wrapped around him, dripping with spit and come, taking him as deeply as he could. He pictured Eddie bobbing his head up and down. He imagined his pretty eyes watching him as he moaned, whimpered his name, and came in his throat. He pictured Eddie swallowing it all. 

Richie took one last drag and crushed the butt of his joint into his ashtray. He reached underneath his blanket and began stroking himself.

He lasted less than a minute. 

Richie cleaned himself with another tissue, crumpled it, and chucked it underneath his bed with the others. He still pictured Eddie. Now, Eddie was wiping his mouth clean and crawling up to lay beside him. There was a wide smile on his face. Richie unconsciously bunched his blanket into a person-like-shape and hugged it, almost kissed it.

The math was simple.

Jerking off while high was better than jerking off while sober.

Jerking off to Eddie was better than jerking off to Adrienne Moreau.

Eddie.

Eddie. Eddie. Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.

Richie moved his tongue in his mouth, which was dry and gross-tasting. A downside of getting high. Muttering a ballad of curses for, Richie climbed out of bed and made his way downstairs, keeping one hand on the wall to keep himself from bumping into something. He found the kitchen and chugged a glass of water. When he returned to his bedroom, he collapsed on his bed. Richie was lulled to sleep by the distant rock-and-roll playing on his radio, the drugs coursing through his system, and the knowledge that in a few short hours, he would be with Eddie Spaghetti, making fun of his ugly pyjamas.

**The Standpipe, 1964**

**Derry, Maine**

The Standpipe was built on top of a hill that overlooked the town. It was a water tower, not too large, with unlocked doors that allowed anyone inside. Children often dared each other to climb the spiral staircase that led to the very top. It was a dangerous climb, considering the Standpipe had been around for years, and the creaking and whirring of the rusty steps sounded like ghosts. Regardless, it was a popular site among stupid children, rebellious teenagers, and grown-ups looking for an excuse to leave the house. 

Richie and Eddie drove to the Standpipe almost every night. It had become a tradition. Richie would drive to the Kaspbrak house. Eddie would sneak out his window and join him. They would drive up to the Standpipe, listening to the radio, with the cool, crisp, nighttime breeze. When they arrived, they would smoke a customary joint, and once they were feeling fuzzy enough, they would have sex in the back of the car. 

If the night was chilly, they would stay in the backseat, but if it was warm, they would climb onto the hood of the car and gaze at the stars, talking about whatever came to their minds, or sometimes, saying nothing at all, and merely enjoy being together. 

Tonight was a warm night. Summer was around the corner.

Richie and Eddie lay on the hood of the car. Music played through the open windows. They were not gazing at the stars but at the darkness of the town below them. Something felt wrong, Richie realized. They had done everything they usually did -- they smoked, they had sloppy sex, they sat in silence -- but there was something about the silence that was not quite right.

"What are you thinking about?" Richie wondered. 

"I don't know."

"You're really quiet."

"I think I smoked too much."

"If you smoked too much, you would get paranoid, and we both know how you get when you're paranoid, you lightweight."

That much was true. It had taken a long time for Richie to convince Eddie to try smoking marijuana. Come on, just once! For me! If you have an asthma attack, I know what to do! Inhaler! Mouth-to-mouth! Nine-one-one! Come on, Eds!

Eddie had tried it, and he had liked it, but only when it was with Richie.

There had been a few occasions when Eddie got paranoid. He would hyperventilate, curl up into a ball, and be afraid his mother would appear out of thin air. The only thing stopping him from calling the police was Richie, who would hold him and wait until he fell asleep. When Eddie woke up, Richie would be at his side with some water, aspirin, and of course, plenty of teasing comments. 

"Fuck you," Eddie said. There was no bite to his words.

"Do I have to interrogate you? Because I will. Shine a lamp in your face, if you want. Could be kinky."

Richie rolled onto his side, facing Eddie, who stared at the town uneasily.

"What are we supposed to do after we graduate?" Eddie asked. 

"Like, high school?"

"No, dumbass, I meant Harvard."

"Banter _and_ a new kink. I like it."

"I'm serious!" Eddie said, "What the fuck are we supposed to do?"

"Get the fuck out of Derry."

"Exactly! But if we leave -- _when_ we leave -- what does that mean for _us_?"

Richie frowned, "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Eddie said sadly, "We're not gonna be together anymore."

Richie let his gaze wander to the darkness of the town, and all of a sudden, he understood what Eddie was seeing. All of those streets, those buildings, those secret hangouts, those people who came and went ... the place they had called _home_ ... would no longer be home. Derry was nothing more than a dot on the map of Maine. It was the place where they were born, where they were raised, and the place they would leave behind. The preliminaries were over.

"Who says we won't be together anymore?" Richie asked stupidly.

"That's what everyone says -- oh, we're gonna keep in touch after high school, oh, nothing can keep us apart! Everyone knows it's a big fat fucking lie. How many people who leave Derry come back? Nobody! That's because this town is _fucked_. The same thing will happen to us once we leave."

Richie laced their fingers together.

"We both knew it was gonna happen," he whispered.

"I know ... " Eddie went silent, turning away from the town. 

"What is it, baby?"

Richie could tell Eddie was trying not to cry. He wrapped his arms around Eddie, closing the space between them, and squished his face into his chest, muffling his grunts of protest. Eddie pawed at his shirt but gave up quickly. He balled the fabric in his hands and held it tight, as if he was afraid of letting go. Richie could feel his tears seeping through.

"I love you," Eddie said.

Richie was dumbfounded.

"I ... I love you, too. You know that. Why are you crying?"

"Because this is it, man. This is it for you and me. And I don't ... I don't wanna be _alone_."

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Richie asked, "Being alone? That's insane."

"Think about it!"

"I _am_ thinking about it."

Eddie looked up at Richie, his face red and puffy.

"We have, what, a few weeks left, right? We should make the most out of them. Make them count. Spend every fucking minute together, even if we get sick of it. And being _alone_ \-- that's bullshit. You're not gonna be alone. You're always gonna have me. Yeah, I might not _actually_ be there, but you're still gonna have me," Richie said, holding the sides of Eddie's face, making his point clear, "That's a promise."

Eddie leaned forward and needily pressed his lips against Richie's.

They were high and could still taste the marijuana in their mouths, making the kiss awkward and clumsy, but Richie and Eddie were used to making out with one half their mind on each other's tongues, and the other half floating around in another, intoxicated dimension, filled with thoughts that made sense at the moment, but would quickly disappear, be forgotten, and replaced with another.

"You make me so happy," Eddie said, his words tumbling into Richie's mouth.

"You're just saying that because you're high."

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."

Richie felt Eddie becoming hard against him. He smiled wickedly. 

"You have a situation, Monsieur Kaspbrak, down below."

"What are you gonna do about it?" Eddie asked. He was already pressing himself against Richie and moaning softly. He had a tendency to get impatient after smoking -- it was part of the reason Richie made sure to get him stoned every time they came to the Standpipe. He liked it when Eddie forgot to worry about things, and instead, have his way with him, whether it meant getting carried away in the backseat, or bending over and blowing him on the drive home.

They stumbled back into the car, their lips never parting.


	5. In The Darkness Of The Cistern.

**The Lair Of It, 1985**

**Derry, Maine**

Light flashed from the inside of Its mouth, shining on the crumbling stone walls of the cistern, and on the faces of the Losers as they fought. Their teeth were bared, their clothes were torn, their hair a tangled mess. The fight had started hundreds of years ago, with the first settlers of Derry, and would end in the cistern, with a group of friends who had returned after twenty-seven-something years to fulfill a promise they had made as children. If they never made it out of the cistern, so be it. One thing mattered above all else. Pennywise was going to die. 

Richie, however, crouched in a hidden corner of the cistern. Eddie was in his arms. 

"We have to get you out of here," Richie said. He was shaking.

"Richie -- "

Richie removed his jacket and pressed it against the gaping wound in Eddie's chest. Blood spread through his jacket, hot and sticky, and onto his hands.

"Richie," Eddie repeated, speaking between laboured breaths, "I -- I tried. I almost killed it. Did you see?"

He glanced at Richie with something bright in his eyes, like a child glancing at their mother, expecting to be praised for doing something good.

"You were great," Richie said, "Totally badass."

There was blood, so much blood, gushing from Eddie's chest and pooling around him. He was close to death. Richie, with tears pouring down his cheeks, frantically balled his jacket up and attempted to stop the blood, but it came in waves, one after another, and the colour steadily drained from Eddie's face. 

A sob-like noise tore from Richie. 

"_Eds_ \-- !"

He was fading quickly. Richie could feel it in the way Eddie leaned against his hands, unable to keep himself upright.

"You ... " Eddie swallowed, "You know I hate ... when you call me ... that."

He tried to smile.

"I'm sorry," he added.

"Don't be sorry. Just stay with me. _Please_."

"I want to stay with you."

Eddie coughed, bringing up more blood, spilling it on himself and Richie. His entire body deflated in Richie's arms.

"I ... always ... wanted ... to ... stay ... with ... you ... "

Eddie became still. His eyes cleared. The name dangled on his lips ... _Richie_ ...

A single tear rolled down his blood-stained cheek, which Richie wiped away with his thumb. He seized with horror and heartbreak. He wrapped his arms around Eddie, soaking himself in his blood, and hugged him tightly, wishing he would die._ Kill me_, _too_. _Kill me_, _too_. _Kill me_, _too_. His life flashed before his eyes -- he was a young boy running down the street. Eddie was with him. He was a teenager sneaking out during the night. Eddie was with him. He was a grown-up lying naked in bed. Eddie was with him. 

And now, in the darkness of the cistern, Richie wished he was dead.

Eddie was still with him. 

**Maine Medical Center, 1985**

**Portland, Maine**

The room had faded blue walls and a clean, white floor, with fluorescent lights flickering above. There were several machines that whirred softly, pumping drugs into the patient through plastic tubes. There was a distinct, hospital-room-smell. Pushed against the wall of the room was a chair, and in the chair was Richie. He snored loudly as he slept. His head drooped. His glasses slid off his nose and onto his lap, but he remained asleep all the while. 

Across the room, Eddie was laying in the hospital bed. 

The doctors had found a heartbeat when he was dragged out of the cistern. 

Since admittance, Richie had stayed faithfully in the hospital room, despite the Losers telling him over and over again that Eddie was okay. He was safe! He was alive! Richie ought to get some sleep, a proper meal, and, for the love of God, take a shower. Of course, Richie ignored them. He knew they meant well, but nothing could convince him to leave Eddie.

Richie jolted, waking himself up. In his few, precious moments of sleep, he had dreamed they were back in the cistern, and Eddie was in his arms, covered in blood. Richie blindly put his glasses back on. It took him a minute to remember where he was.

He saw Eddie laying in bed. His heartbeat was steady on the monitor. He was okay.

"Fuck," Richie muttered, rubbing his eyes. He gave himself a shake, rose to his feet, and paced the room. He couldn't gamble falling asleep again. What if one of the tubes jammed? What if one of the machines went haywire? What if, by chance, Eddie slipped under, and Richie was asleep while it happened, instead of being at his bedside? The doctors had assured Richie that Eddie was well on his way to recovery. He would spend a month in the hospital. Not to mention, follow-up months of check-ups and physical therapy, but he was _recovering_. 

IVs pierced the backs of his hands, and wires connected to his chest, measuring his vitals. Eddie had undergone surgery. There was extensive damage to his liver and stomach, both of which were now lined with staples, and the procedure had been accompanied by several blood transfusions. The doctors had explained everything in detail, but it had been all-too-smart-sounding for Richie. He had stood with a blank expression and crossed arms when the doctors said things like _costal cartilage_ and _thoracic vertebrae_.

The bottom line -- Eddie was hurt, really hurt, but he was going to live.

The doctors had asked what had stabbed Eddie so cleanly through his chest. Richie knew telling the truth would land him in Juniper Hill Asylum, so instead, he explained the Losers were exploring the house on Neibolt Street for nostalgic reasons, and it had collapsed while they were inside. Eddie must have been struck by a beam, not a spider-leg of a clown called Pennywise. 

Careful not to hit any wires or bandages, Richie put his hand on Eddie, and he closed his eyes. 

"Eddie," he whispered. The name was sweet on his lips. 

When they were in the cistern, Richie believed Eddie had died. He lost him. He had felt pain greater than he thought possible -- he held Eddie, covered himself in his blood, kissed his unconscious face. He had been tempted to grab the nearest, sharpest rock, and plunge it through his own chest. He wanted to die. No -- not die. He wanted to be with Eddie, and death was a small price to pay. When Eddie was pulled from the wreckage and still breathing, Richie came back to life, too. 

"Could you do me a favour?" Richie asked, scratching the stubble on his face, "And wake up? I mean, take your fucking time, but this hospital is getting boring."

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, but his hand never left Eddie. 

"You know, whenever you decide to wake up, let me know, so I can kill you for -- "

\-- Eddie moved.

Richie watched with wild eyes as Eddie opened his mouth and sucked in ragged breaths. His chest rose and fell quickly -- too quickly -- and the numbers on his monitors were rising. One of the machines connected to Eddie through a wire began beeping. Richie, terrified, jumped to his feet.

"Nurse!" He bellowed, "NURSE!"

He sprinted out of the room and found the nearest nurse in the hallway. He grabbed her by the shoulder, startling her.

"Mr Tozier?"

"Something is wrong! Something is happening!"

Richie dragged the poor nurse back to the room. Eddie, still unconscious, was breathing and sweating and ... _bleeding_.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Richie screamed.

"Mr Tozier, I need you to leave," the nurse said, rushing to the bedside while pressing buttons on her pager. 

"BUT EDDIE -- !"

"Please!" The nurse said, "Out!"

Richie slowly backed out of the room, unable to take his gaze away from Eddie. Nurses came flooding into the room. A pair of hands guided Richie into the hallway, sat him in the waiting room, and gave him a small paper cup of water. A woman was speaking to him -- telling him to relax, to understand they were going everything they could, and Mr Kaspbrak should be okay.

Then, Richie was alone. He drank the water and crushed the paper cup in his hand. 

Hours passed.

Or was it minutes?

Seconds?

Richie blinked. He spotted a clock on the wall. It was mid-afternoon. 

Eddie? When did Eddie start moving? When did the nurses run inside? 

Richie stood up, sat down, and stood up again. He ran his fingers through his hair. He walked past the others in the waiting room -- families huddled together, worrying about their ill grandparents, and young fathers, waiting for news about their wives and newborn children. Richie approached the phone hanging underneath the clock and grabbed the receiver. His fingers dialled a number. 

Ringing ... ringing ... ringing ...

"Hello?" Came a familiar voice, "Wh-who is this?"

It was Bill.

"Big Bill," Richie said, without thinking.

"Richie? Oh, J-J-Jesus, are you still at the hos-hospital?"

"Yeah."

"You n-n-n-need to go home, man. W-We talked ab-ab-about this."

"Something happened to Eddie."

Saying it aloud made Richie break. He cupped a hand over his mouth, muffling his sobs.

"R-R-Richie ... is he ... ?"

"I don't know," Richie said, "I don't know, Big Bill, I got the nurses and they kicked me out."

"Jesus. I'll be there a-a-as s-s-soon as I c-c-can. Did you call the oth-others? Fuck it -- I'll c-call them. Wait there, R-Richie."

The line went dead.

Richie put the receiver back in place. He rubbed his eyes until they burned and returned to his seat. He bounced his leg up and down, wanting to throw up, wanting to cry, wanting to run back to the room and be with Eddie. Instead, Richie remained planted in his chair. He stared at the clock as the minutes slowly ticked by. 

Beverly arrived first, her orange hair in rollers. She saw Richie and gave him a tight hug.

"I just got the call from Bill," she said, panting, "I was at the salon. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Did they say anything?"

"I'm fine. I mean -- no -- nothing yet."

Beverly sat beside Richie, keeping her arm wrapped around him. She smelled strongly of hairspray. The others arrived shortly afterwards, said kind things to Richie, and sat around him. Richie, despite his mind jumping from one thought to another, felt comfort in being surrounded by his friends. They held his hands, grabbed him a dozen paper cups of water, and, whenever he teared up, they would calm him down, and someone would volunteer to bombard the nurses with questions. When they returned, the news was always the same -- they were doing everything they could. 

Hours later, a doctor, donned in a white coat, approached them. Her voice was kind and intelligent.

"Mr Kaspbrak is perfectly fine," she said. The Losers sighed a breath of relief.

"What happened?" Mike asked.

"Sutures in his abdomen came undone," the doctor explained, "Wound dehiscence can be extremely painful and that was why Mr Kapsbrak reacted the way he did. We cleaned the wound to avoid infection and closed it with new sutures. A small incident, but, not to worry. His temperature, his blood pressure, his heartbeat -- everything is steady. Mr Kaspbrak is awake, if you would like to -- "

"He woke up?" Ben said, eyebrows raising. The doctor nodded.

"He woke up after the procedure. Would you like to speak to him?"

The Losers turned to Richie. Squeezing the armrests of his chair, he rose to his feet. 

"Do you want us to come with you?" Beverly asked, keeping a worried hand on his shoulder, "Or should we wait here?"

"Wait here," Richie blurted. He turned to his friends, who watched him with sympathy and understanding. He felt a rush of gratitude towards them. He knew he would be a weeping mess without them. He wanted to thank them -- but later. He merely nodded and followed the doctor back to the room. 

"I understand this is a difficult time for you," she said, as they came to a stop outside the door, "For the both of you."

Her tone changed. Richie looked at the doctor, who was frowning at him. 

"The first thing he said was your name. He wanted you."

"He's my closest friend."

"He made that much clear. We get a lot of your kind here, Mr Tozier."

"What the hell are you implying, Doc?"

Richie glared at the doctor, but her frown had been replaced with a soft smile. 

"My girlfriend was a patient of mine. We've been together since. You aren't the only ones. There's always hope for people like us, Mr Tozier. You're damn lucky you have those lovely people in the waiting room at your side. Take as much time as you need," she said, clearing her throat, "Holler if you need anything."

She touched Richie's arm, and she was gone. 

Richie stood outside the door in shock. 

How did she know?

What was there to know?

Richie shook his head. He swallowed the sickness in his throat and opened the door.

The room had come to life. The lights were turned on, the curtains were open, and the chairs and trays had been moved around. The machines were beeping rhythmically again. Lying in bed, dressed loosely in a hospital gown that exposed scarred skin underneath, was Eddie. He turned his head at the sound of the door opening. 

"Richie?"

His voice made Richie weak.

"Hey," Richie said thickly, "How do you feel?"

"Okay. They put me under a lot of meds."

"Well, yeah, they basically had you cut in half."

Eddie offered a crooked smile. 

Richie approached him slowly, his hands shoved in his pockets. 

"I called everyone," Richie said, "They're waiting outside."

"All of them?"

Richie nodded.

"Everyone made it out."

"And ... what about ... ?"

"Dead. The fucking clown is dead."

Eddie made a relieved sort of sound. _It was over_.

Richie lowered himself onto the bed, which was an awkward ordeal with his gangly legs. His gaze swept over Eddie -- he could see the fresh stitches poking through the neck of his hospital gown, and the redness of his skin. 

"Fuck."

Richie took off his glasses and pressed his fingers into his eyes, trying to stop his tears. His shoulders began to shake.

"Rich?" Eddie said, his voice dripping with care, which only made things worse. Richie keeled over, unable to suppress the agony -- the same agony he had felt when he walked out of the room after making love to Eddie, when he told Eddie he loved him and was told nothing in return, when he was in the cistern with Eddie in his arms, his life slipping away. With Eddie awake, Richie had no reason to worry anymore. All of a sudden, he was back to where he had started -- to walking out of the room after they made love, any hope for his future with Eddie being nothing more than a teenage fantasy.

Richie had forgotten how much it hurt.

"You fucking asshole," he said, turning away, "You scared the shit out of me."

Eddie watched him with a hardened expression. 

"Rich, I think I need to tell you something."

"Don't say things you don't mean -- "

"I mean it -- "

"You're on a lot of drugs -- "

"Richie," Eddie said gently, reaching up and touching the side of his face, "Listen to me."

Their foreheads pressed together. Richie stared at Eddie, at his round eyes, his long lashes. Something tightened in his chest. For the first time, Richie did not see Eddie as a young boy who gobbled placebos as if they were Tic Tacs. Instead, Richie saw him as a man. He was not perfect, by any means. He worried too much and used too much product in his hair and wore shoes that looked as if they belonged to a nineteenth-century coachman ... but he was Eddie. He was brave. He was smart. He cared about his friends, about doing the right thing, and ... 

"Eddie, do you love me?"

They both knew the answer.

Richie could see it in the way Eddie looked at him.

He could feel it in the way Eddie held him.

He could taste it in the way Eddie kissed him.

"I always loved you," Eddie whispered, "I never stopped."

Richie knew Eddie was about to say everything he had wanted to say since they were young, but he refused to break their kiss. If Eddie could wait twenty-seven-something years, he could wait for another minute, at the very least. Just this morning, he was convinced Eddie would never wake up, despite the doctors telling him otherwise. Now, he knew nothing could separate him from Eddie. Not a murderous clown, not common sense.

"Richie," Eddie gasped, "My stitches."

Richie pulled away, his lips warm.

"Sorry. Did I touch something?"

"No, I think I just moved too much," Eddie said, breathing heavily, "The nurses told me not to move around for the first few hours."

"Oh, shit, should I go get someone?"

"I don't think that would look very good."

"What are you talking about? Oh."

Richie grinned, seeing the bulge poking through Eddie's hospital gown. 

"Shut up," Eddie snapped, "How old are you, seriously?"

"Well, apparently, _you_ just hit puberty," Richie said. He inched his hand towards the bulge.

"If you want, I can -- "

"Not in a hospital!"

"Right," Richie said, "I forgot. The hospital is your place of worship. Sorry, you germaphobe."

Eddie leaned against his pillow, exhausted from the kiss. The weariness from the procedures and medications returned to him, but he looked at Richie with a smile, and they held hands. A moment passed in comfortable silence. The fight was over. They had won.

"I'm sorry I didn't say things sooner," Eddie said, "I never meant to hurt you."

"What held you back?" Richie asked. 

"I guess ... I just ... when I saw you at Jade Of The Orient, I remembered how close we used to be, and how depressed I was after we split. I was without you for the first time in my life. It hurt. I forgot about Derry, but, I never forgot about the hurt. I knew I never wanted to feel it again. So, I married Myra. I stuck to the same, cushiony job, ever since I finished college. I was okay with a boring life if it meant I never got hurt. I know it seems immature -- "

"I was in a two-year relationship with a woman," Richie said, "And, if you asked what her birthday is, I wouldn't be able to tell you."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not kidding."

"What the hell, Richie, her birthday?"

"Sorry," Richie said, snickering, "Go ahead."

Eddie had to wipe the smile from his face before continuing.

"I knew I still loved you. I also knew that, if I wanted to be with you, I was risking my boring life, and it scared me. It had to take a fucking hole in my chest to realize I was being stupid."

"Yeah," Richie agreed, "Really fucking stupid."

There was a knock at the door. 

"They probably think you died," Richie said, glancing over his shoulder.

"Or you're in the middle of giving me a blowjob."

"Do you want me to? Because my offer still stands -- "

"Get the door, Rich."

Richie, smirking, crossed the room and opened the door, allowing Bill, Beverly, Ben, and Mike inside.

**The Tozier/Kaspbrak Apartment, 1986**

**Los Angeles, California**

"I hate that you always have a green Christmas."

"Does it usually snow in the big city?"

"Yeah. And, typically, instead of palm trees, we have the tree at Rockefeller Center."

"Sounds pretty boring, baby."

"Tell that to Bing Crosby. See what he thinks."

Richie and Eddie lay together in their bed, listening to the birds chirping outside their bedroom window. It was nearly noon, and they were finally waking up from a late night of drinking, laughing, and having sex on their kitchen island. Between their demanding work schedules, it was difficult to find time to spend together. In the spirit of Christmas, they had booked the weekend off, bought the most expensive bottles of wine they could find at Safeway, and took off their clothes. 

Now, they lay in their warm bed, cherishing the fact they were not at work.

"I have a bit of a hangover," Eddie said, rubbing his temple. 

"From wine?"

"I drank a lot of it."

Chuckling, Richie rolled onto his side and mock-pinched Eddie's cheek. 

"Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"How do you take it, sir?"

"You know how I take it. Just make the damn coffee."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Richie said, in a grand, ringmaster voice, "I present to you, the love of my life, the apple of my eye, the most beautiful man I have ever had the pleasure of calling mine, the one, the only, the hungover, Eddie Kaspbrak."

Eddie, buried under the sheets, stuck up his middle finger. 

"Tough crowd," Richie said, climbing out of bed. He found a pair of boxers on the floor, put them on, and padded out of the room. 

Their apartment was not elegant, but if cleaned up, it could probably make it onto the front page of a magazine. There were large pieces of neon art hanging on the walls, a colour television in the living room, a study dedicated to collectable vinyl records, and, of course, a disco ball hanging in the spare bedroom, which Richie had thought was hilarious, and Eddie had not. 

After Derry, Richie and Eddie had decided to move in together. Once Eddie was discharged from the hospital, he flew to New York, ended things with Myra, left his company to his most dedicated employees, packed his bags, and fled to L.A. with Richie. They were teenagers all over again. Their _real_ lives had started. 

Richie filled the kettle with water and flicked a few buttons on the coffee maker. He prepared two mugs -- one with lots of cream and sugar, for himself, and one without, for Eddie. As he waited for the coffee maker, he leaned against the kitchen counter, on which was an old newspaper. 

RICHARD TOZIER, THE MAN OF A THOUSAND VOICES, COMES OUT AS GAY 

Richie read the headline with distaste.

Coming out had been his idea, but Eddie was the one who encouraged him to do it. It had taken him months to finally work up the courage, storm into his office, and tell his boss the truth. He had nearly been fired, on account of gross indecency. But, considering Richie brought in millions to the radio company each year, he had been allowed to stay. His boss never regarded him the same. Richie miraculously found brochures for HIV/AIDS on his desk every other morning, with unpleasant notes written on them in Sharpie.

"You did the right thing," Eddie said, wrapping his arms around Richie from behind, and peppering his back with kisses. Richie stared at the newspaper. Underneath the headline was a large, blown-out picture of himself in the studio, doing some impression into the microphone. 

"Ratings stayed the same," Eddie continued, "The number of viewers stayed the same. The boycotting was short-lived. And, you have these."

Next to the newspaper was a pile of handwritten letters. Richie had only opened one. It was from a young boy who claimed he was a lifelong fan of the Man Of A Thousand Voices. His life had changed when he heard about Richie coming out, as he planned to come out to his religious parents. Richie had not bothered to open the other letters. 

"You're changing their lives, whether you like it or not."

"They're gonna realize the world isn't their friend."

"Richie. Things are different now."

"Not different enough," Richie said, picking up the kettle and pouring coffee into the mugs. Eddie sighed and took his mug.

"You did the right thing," he repeated quietly. Richie turned to Eddie, who watched him over the rim of his mug, a smile growing on his face. Richie couldn't help but laugh. Eddie was right -- he was always right. 

"Still hungover?" Richie asked.

"Mostly just a headache," Eddie said, "Nothing a shower won't remedy."

He set down his mug and wandered to the bathroom, grazing his hand against Richie as he went. Richie, knowing the game he was trying to play, remained in the kitchen with his coffee. No, he was _not_ going to fall for it. He was a grown man! An adult! He could not be lured with the _slightest_ possibility of getting his dick sucked. Richie was dignified, proud, and --

The shower in the bathroom turned on. Hearing the water beating against the tiles, Richie imagined Eddie stripping out of his boxers and stepping into the hot, scorching shower, the heat spreading through the bathroom, steaming the mirrors, and carrying the sweet, irresistible scent of _Eddie_ as he cleaned himself. 

"Fuck you, Kaspbrak," Richie mumbled. He finished his coffee, set the mug in the sink, and followed Eddie into the bathroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!  
Thank you for making it to the end of my cheesy story. I was NOT okay with the ending of the canon book/movie, and my response to bad endings is writing fanfiction, so here we are. I had a blast writing about Richie coming to terms with his homosexuality and Eddie confronting his fears, and the occasional smutty moment between the two of them. Thanks again for reading. I hope you enjoyed :)


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